


leave no floe unturned

by sadsparties



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Gen, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:47:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23681083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadsparties/pseuds/sadsparties
Summary: Captain James Clark Ross and Lieutenant Francis Crozier are the finest aeronauts that His Majesty’s Royal Air Force has ever produced. Their next mission together: to rescue eleven whalers trapped in the Arctic Circle.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier & Sir James Clark Ross
Comments: 19
Kudos: 21





	leave no floe unturned

Stromness did not even have a third of the population of Woolwich, but it seemed to Francis that the cheers of good luck from the humble portside town were louder than that of his previous, more illustrious voyages. Perhaps it was because London was so used to the departure, to well wishes and thoughts of adventure, whereas the Orkneys had always had to grapple with the returning, to broken ships and ships that never came back at all. Or maybe it was the extraordinary circumstances behind their expedition, not a quest of glory or honour, but of saving lives. 

The _Cove_ itself was an unusual airship. Hastily refurbished in a matter of two weeks, it had transformed from a commercial vessel relaying messages in the sky to a proper member of the Royal Air Force. Its amber envelope, so different from the RAF’s customary black, stood out against the clear sky. 

Francis secured his bifocals across his eyes and peered out from the rear observation deck. The crowd in Stromness had become as small as his thumb.

“All well, Francis?” said a figure who went past in a flurry of leather straps. 

“Ezra,” Francis greeted. “Going dorsal so soon?” 

Erasmus Ommaney, third lieutenant of the _Cove_ and life of the wardroom, produced a mischievous grin as he secured a safety harness about his waist. “Merely having the middies help out with the sniffers. They ought to learn early, shouldn’t they?”

Francis gave him a pointed stare. “If we were to demote them to ship’s boys, then yes.” 

Erasmus’s grin widened, impish and without even a hint of apology. Francis hummed a tired sigh. “I will indulge your capery while we still have idle time, but remember, Ezra, the chronometers—”

“Yes, yes, I will attend to them as soon as I can. Really, Francis!” 

Francis let him be and had turned to go back to the safety of the corridor when Erasmus called out, “Oh, and Francis?”

“Hmm?”

“The captain’s calling for you. At the bridge.” Erasmus performed a jolly salute as he took hold of a ratline, then hoisted himself upwards towards the stern.

🐝🚩🐝🚩🐝🚩

James looked exceedingly well for a man who, only three years prior, was wasting away in the same region of the world that they were bound for. Then again, he had always been a paragon of graceful recovery. Francis still remembered how they had first met aboard the Fury, him a mere midshipman, and James, looking distinguished in his green dress regs even as he tripped across the foretop to shake Francis’s hand. “Crozier, was it?” he had said in the middle of disentangling his ankle from a bit of stray netting, “I’m James Ross!”.

James was then one and twenty years old, merely a middie but already Parry’s right hand man. And he wanted everyone to know it. 

He and Francis got along famously.

The recent days had seen James in a state of restlessness. The squall that they faced just outside of Stromness had lost them a week for repairs, and Francis knew, as he knew how the man liked his eggs, that James wanted to move along as quickly as possible. 

The man in question was studying a map laid on the table as Francis entered the bridge. James settled his hands on his waist, then cocked his head to the glass of whisky set on a corner of the map. Francis lifted the glass and tutted at the wet ring it left on the paper.

“Airmen these days are too fortunate,” James said. “Why, the last time I was given a set of maps by Air Command, half of them were mere blank spaces. Now look at this luxury.” He gestured to the map on display, a partial rendering of waters between North America and Greenland. “A full survey from the Labrador Sea to Lancaster Sound! One would think an airman ought to exert an effort.” 

Francis grinned. “I think I know who had a hand in filling those spaces.” 

James pointed to a spot in the Atlantic Ocean which Francis ascertained was their precise location. “If Fortune allows that we encounter no more easterly winds, we should reach Davis Strait within a month.” James traced his finger through a route following the coast of Newfoundland. “Once we reach the coast, we will do a thorough survey of the area near the shore. If the reports are correct and the ships have been beset, or, God forbid, run aground, it will be likely that her crews will have gone to land for safety.”

“If we stay too close, we might risk running aground ourselves,” Francis argued. “We will be flying low, I presume, to make it easier for our spotters, but if we fly close to the shore and a fierce wind blows, there is a chance we will collide against the taller icebergs.”

James’s brows furrowed to a line of worry. “I know, but this is the prudent choice. Should we not find them near the shore, the alternative is to scour the entirety of the northern Labrador sea, pack and all. I only hope that they have released themselves by the time we arrive.” 

Francis heaved a sigh as he whirled the contents of the glass in his hand. This is why he had always seen himself as an airman. An airship had its propellers, and so long as its envelope and chambers remained intact, it would still be able to move. He could not imagine being trapped in a frozen sea, or being becalmed. 

“Understood. Now,” he paused, sending a smirk down James’s way, “tell me why you really summoned me here.”

James’s frown melted into a series of high-pitched, short-lived laughter that Francis was careful not to describe as a ‘giggle’. It would not do to rouse James’s surliness at such a moment. His friend dove into the pocket of his uniform and produced a well-folded letter, James’s name scribbled in elegant cursive at the header. “Sent through our mutual acquaintance,” he said.

Francis crossed the room to inspect the letter more closely. He was not so crass as to actually read it, and he knew that James would indulge him with a private recitation later, never mind that it was only to coerce compliments out of him on how lovely Ann’s writing was. “The lady is well?” he asked.

“More than, and has been virtuously constant.”

“How can you tell?”

“Can a lady write with such verve if she is entertaining someone else? Here, Frank. Let me read this bit about her days with my sister at the Spence house. Ann tells me that she visits Isabella every Sunday and that they spend entire afternoons going through the Ross family tree.”

“She’s a bit of a historian then,” Francis surmised. “Maybe she means to write a poem on Highland military men.”

“Come now, Frank, you’ve seen her! There is not a deceitful bone in her being.”

“I saw the shape of her, James. If you recall, I was occupied as both your boatman and sentinel as you performed all manner of unmentionable things to her behind some well-placed shrubbery.”

“Keep it down, damn you!” James hissed, though the grin he held betrayed his real emotion. “What if someone hears?”

Francis leaned close and whispered, “Then they will have made an accurate assessment of their commanding officer.”

James had looked so appalled that Francis could not help but burst into snickers. James playfully shoved Francis’s shoulder, which was usually no urgent issue, until it had sent the contents of Francis’s glass spilling onto the table. They then spent the next few minutes cursing and blotting out stains from the 45th and 46th meridian.

When the result of their efforts could be deemed passable by the freshest of ship’s boys, James cleared his throat. “I can’t say that your judgment is fair, as you have not met her—properly. But once you’ve made her acquaintance, and, hopefully, her friendship, then you will understand me, and you will see that there is no question of us marrying.”

“Has her father agreed then?”

“Not as of yet.” James pressed his lips together. “I’m working on it.” 

🐝🚩🐝🚩🐝🚩

Francis squinted as he tried to fill the captain’s log by the dim light. He posited, not for the first time, that this was why half the senior officers in the Air Force ended up with astigmatism. Seeing by firefox was a chore in itself, but writing and making sense of one’s strokes under the light of bioluminescent moss required a different level of skill and patience. Francis’s attention slid to a corner of the bridge where he recalled the steward kept an oil lamp. It was a tempting thought, but Francis knew the risks, and he would rather keep it in reserve should some later emergency require a proper light.

A slight knock at the door interrupted his musings. “Mr. Smith,” he greeted the figure hovering by the door. “What news?”

Alexander Smith was a blonde, barrel-chested bulk of a man who seemed ashamed of his very stature. This was his fifth year as a mate, and this voyage his first chance at promotion. Francis had always thought that he would make a fine, if intimidating, officer, if only he stopped slouching. “Is the captain in, sir?” Smith said.

“No, I am afraid he has retired for the day.” Francis gestured for Smith to come in. “But I am instructed to relay any messages to him, if needed.”

Smith shook his head, and it caused the loose curls in his hair to sway left and right. “No, sir, I meant to speak to you really. I mean I thought it best to speak to you first, before the captain.” 

Smith took a moment to look back at the forecastle as he slid the door closed. He fidgeted with his hat and cradled it on the inside of his elbow. “I was just fresh off the second morning watch, sir, and I noticed that one of the topmen was in sickbay complaining of a headache. Doctor Fuller put vinegar on his forehead and asked him some questions, like how often he gets headaches and if he’s sleeping enough, things like that. I was about to go on my way when the airman said a queer thing.”

Francis nodded for him to proceed. “He asked the doctor if we’ll stop at Greenland before we enter Davis Strait, or how long it will be until we reach the islands in the eastern side of the Labrador Sea. Doctor Fuller couldn’t answer him and told him as much that it wasn’t his business to know, being trained in medicine and not navigation, but the topman seemed to think that since the doctor is a wardroom officer, he would know something of our route.”

Smith looked at Francis expectantly, like he was waiting for Francis to offer a cue, a word, anything that would validate what he had come to suspect. “And you are wondering why an AB is curious as to the route we will take,” Francis said.

“If I may, sir,” ventured Smith. “There has been talk amongst the crew ever since those easterlies hit us last month. We lost a propeller and broke our main stabiliser, and we hadn’t even entered the Arctic Circle yet. These men are the most seasoned I’ve flown with, but even those gales put the fear in them. There’s no telling what they would do once we reach a safe port.” 

Francis considered this and drummed his fingers on the table. “You think order might break among us,” he said. 

Smith was not so presumptuous as to agree wholeheartedly. There was doubt in his eyes still, but also worry. Francis hummed and rapped his knuckles twice on the table, the sound echoing in the silent bridge, final and decisive. “I thank you for bringing this forward, Mr. Smith. Be assured that I will discuss this with the captain.”

Smith let his shoulders sag further, his relief palpable now that he had done his duty. He put his much-crumpled cap back on his head and made to leave. “Oh, and Mr. Smith?” 

Francis gave his retreating figure a slight smile. “Well done, lad.” 

When he had the room to himself again, Francis released the breath he was holding. The signs of mutiny so early into their voyage, he would have to tell James. Francis blamed himself for not having noticed a whiff of it, a grave error for a lieutenant, but should he become a captain someday, a fatal one. Francis looked out from the bridge’s windguard and caught the blink of green lights to the westward, an ominous sign. 

🐝🚩🐝🚩🐝🚩

In the morning, they met the _Undaunted_ , whose skipper told them that the _Lady Jane_ had been released from the pack somewhere along Cumberland Sound. This left the _William Torr_ the only remaining ship whose fate was unknown. The _Undaunted_ herself was carrying survivors from the _Viewforth_ , who reported that the _Torr_ was last seen fleeing from Frobisher Strait and into the Button Isles. 

James doubled the number of spotters in both flanks and permitted the crew to wear slops. Temperatures dropped, and their spyglasses became useless in the thickness of the fog. The _Cove_ crossed and recrossed the Labrador Sea to look for any signs of life or men hauling to safety. 

They were halfway to Greenland when James gave the order to drop anchor so they could replenish the ballast with ice and water. The errand took a full day, and as the airship took to the sky once more, Francis began worrying about tonnage. They were too heavy and flying too low. 

Years ago, when Francis was a mere boy of seventeen, his airship had gone round the Cape of Good Hope while escorting merchant vessels. They had flown so high that the clouds began to look like a sea of endless white. Francis remembered the feeling of exhilaration, and the smallness of being part of something so wide and vast. The whiteness he saw below him now did not rouse in him any tender feelings. The ice was a trap, and it was waiting to take you in its grasp and never let you go. 

“Morbing again, old boy?” James swung from the ratlines and met Francis at the rear observation deck. He dusted off a bit of dirt from his uniform, as if it was not as spotless and vividly green as it usually was. James jutted his chin to the line of harnesses neatly hung at the entrance of the corridor. “Come up, Frank,” he said. “It’s a good view.”

Francis did not usually go dorsal. He was not fond of the climb, and it was another reason that he was not fit for the Navy. He had heard that sailors climbed and slid from rigging without a harness, that they leapt from one sail to another without so much as a safety net below. Francis would rather hang limp from the engine cabins and swing wildly near the propellers than climb a mast without any kind of tether. 

But it was another matter entirely once he was on top of the envelope. James had called it ‘finding your air legs’, or whatever it was that allowed Francis to sprint from one end of the sac to the other without much fanfare. It was the feeling beneath his feet, like the airship herself was a living, breathing creature, with her hydrogen cells, and the thrum of her engines, and the breath of every man in her corridor. She had her moods as well, and on chance nights Francis had found himself keeping awake and whispering sweet nothings to her membrane, just so she would remain upright during completely fair weather.

Francis gave the envelope a firm whopping with his foot and felt for the usual returning force. “Mr. Smith!” he yelled. 

“Aye, sir!” came the response from somewhere at port. 

“Less pressure on the mizzen chamber, if you please. Tell the engineer.” 

Francis felt the ratlines go taut as Smith swung from port to aft. “Aye, sir!” he heard as Smith rappelled back to the belly. 

“You’ll put our skymaster out of work if you’re not careful.” 

Francis turned to face James, whose dark eyes shone behind his bifocals. “It will be years before I become as capable as Mr. Humphreys,” he said. James clapped him on the shoulder and led him to starboard.

It was already the middle of the afternoon watch, but with the heavy fog around them, it was impossible to tell. Francis was always nervous when they lost sight of the sun, what with the compasses becoming increasingly unreliable as they approached magnetic north. From his position at the foretop, he could spy a pair of ABs on the forward observation deck, the two men turning a wheel as they lowered a platform with some form of peaked contraption upon it. The platform stopped a good five fathoms from the belly of the airship.

Suddenly, the world was filled with dusky yellow light, the _Cove’s_ warm amber sac turning into sunset orange. Francis’s heart thundered in his chest, and he feared the worst as he whirled around to find Erasmus gazing in awe at the yellow clouds around them. 

“Get to your post, damn you!” he screamed, only to have James take him sideways by the shoulders. 

“Easy, airman,” James said. He put an arm around Francis, embracing him tightly and placing a palm on his chest, entreating. “Be easy. Look at it, closely.”

With James’s solid warmth grounding him, Francis steadied his breath and peered below. On closer inspection, the light was coming from the platform, emanating in a powerful ray that went round and round and illuminated certain parts of the sky. 

“Preston’s Patented Long-Distance Illuminator,” James said beside him. “They’ll put it in the lighthouses soon. It’s meant to be seen as far as 16 miles, moreso at the height we’re putting it.”

“It’s… a signal?”

James hummed in acknowledgment. “We can’t see anything below the corridor at night, no matter how sharp our spotters are, but maybe the survivors will see us and throw out some sign—a gunshot, a flare, anything.”

Francis took in the yellow light surrounding them, so eerily similar to aurora lights that it sent shivers down his uniform. “Christ, James. You should have told me,” he said. “At least I wouldn’t have…” He wavered. James clung to him tighter. 

“Apologies, Frank. I meant it to be a surprise. You were always waking up early to look at sunrises with me and I thought—I didn’t think you would see it as—” James shook his head. “I thought you would be fascinated with the technology. It’s amazing, isn’t it? With the best on our side, there is little chance we will go astray.”

“In this place, technology still bends the knee to luck, James.”

James gave him a wry smile. “I know, old boy. I know.”

🐝🚩🐝🚩🐝🚩

The rest of May was spent going round the area between the Button Isles and Frobisher Strait, then moving ahead to Cumberland Sound. They were flying northeast now, a day’s journey to Greenland remaining when James ordered to double back to Cape Walsingham for a final look about. There was no sign of the _William Torr_ or any other whaling ship, and they were forced to resign themselves to a cheerless, temporary stop at Holsteinborg, where they again received unwelcome news: the supply airships that Air Command had promised them had not arrived. 

With the possibility of desertion among the ranks, James elected to remain asky whilst Francis sorted out what had become of the _Erebus_ and _Terror_. He double-checked and triple-checked his harness as Erasmus attached him to the line, and with his usual cheeky smile, Erasmus shoved Francis offboard and sent him zipping his way down to Holsteinborg’s platform. Francis could feel heat radiating from the trolley as it whisked against the cable, the sound it made akin to a sharp horn trailing in his wake. The loose bits of his slops flapped against his back, reminding Francis once more that he should have gone to the tailor before accepting this appointment. It was a mercifully short ride, and soon enough, the trolley collided with the brake blocks and slowed Francis’s descent. 

The message on the ground was hardly uplifting. Francis discovered that Air Command had chosen to cease the preparations for their supply line upon hearing that 10 of the 11 trapped ships had been accounted for. Instead, Command was to put out a prize for any ship, on sea or air, who would grant assistance to the crew of the _Torr_ . Of Captain James Clark Ross and the _Cove_ , there was no definite word, but it was put out that James was free to return to England if he so desired.

Francis mulled over this as he was reeled back up. He had a feeling that he knew how James would receive the news, feelings that were validated when James told him to set a course for south west. 

“Here I would caution you, James,” he said. “News travels fast through bulkheads, and if the men hear that you plan to pursue the _Torr_ despite having been given the choice to retreat, then you will simply have fueled their disquiet.” 

James turned away but Francis pushed further. “All the more so, were I to read you correctly, if you plan to dock at Okkak, where many whalers can pick up a seditious crew.”

“We’ve got to give it our best shot,” James insisted.

“I know you feel for those sailors, but James—”

“Listen, Frank, if it was you, if you were somewhere in Davis Strait, the last word from your sister airship being that you were almost run aground in foul weather and then disappeared, I would scrub the entire Arctic clean for you, mutiny be damned! I would leave no floe unturned until I found whatever sign—a cairn, a camp, a teaspoon, anything—just to find you.”

James stepped closer and placed his hands on Francis’s elbows. “It is highly unlikely that we will find them alive,” he whispered. His voice was somber, already halfway to grief. “But their loved ones deserve some form of closure, and we are situated to be the only men capable of giving them such a comfort. We will watch out for the AB, and any of his ilk, but we shall proceed south west.” 

He gave Francis’s arms a squeeze. “I need you, Frank. Will you do this with me?”

Those words, said in such a way, inspired no other response. Francis blinked his eyes dry. “Yes, James. Anything.”

🐝🚩🐝🚩🐝🚩

Before heading southwest, James convinced Francis to do a last volley north to the Whalefish Islands, past Disko Island and out to Jacob’s Bight, where they found traces of whaling expeditions from the previous season. The journey would have taken them a little less than a week, but as they had stuck to the waterways for any sign of a grounded ship, it took them eight days before James finally signaled to set a course back to Okkak.

The fog thickened still, so much so that Francis considered calling off their signal. Snow and hale peppered them at odd hours of the day. Temperatures dropped at an alarming rate, and Francis called on the acting master to reserve the best and warmest slops for the spotters, and to rotate them at half-hour shifts lest their teeth burst from the cold.

Francis estimated them to be two days away from the Bay of Okkak when James gathered the crew in the forecastle. 

“Men,” he addressed them, “we are nearing eight months into this journey, and there is no greater honour for me than to have served with such a crew as this. No man here was ordered to this expedition. We all volunteered, and we all have been tested beyond the limits of what we have come to endure in an expedition of discovery. Most of you remember the harsh easterly gales that came upon us as we left Stromness.” Murmurs of agreement went through the men, some more effusive than others. “That storm struck us blind, and no airmen would have survived it were they not as adherent to their duties such as the one I belong to now.”

Francis watched silently from the entrance to the bridge. He was aglow with pride, eyeing James fondly as he took questions from the men. Even Parry was not so open about his intentions, and nor was James, but Francis supposed that James had seen the benefit in being forthright with the men. 

“Are we headed homeward then, sir?” the cook’s mate asked from behind a tower of sea chests. From Yorkshire, Francis recalled, lives with his aunt and two nieces.

“Nearly there, Mr. Whittle,” James said. “We are surely flying in the direction of England, but ahead of pushing south east at full speed, we shall make a short visit at Okkak, where we will inquire at the missionaries if they have heard any word on the _William Torr._ And after that, yes, home.”

🐝🚩🐝🚩🐝🚩

James downed the last of his whisky and set the glass on the table with a resounding thud. “Well?”

Francis smiled. “That was well done. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so endeared to the men before. Being a captain suits you.”

The tinge in James’s cheeks barely registered under the firefox light, but Francis knew it was there. James caught himself for a moment, like he was unsure of his next course of action, and then dragged his seat closer to Francis. His hands laced together on his knees. “Listen, old friend. Barrow wrote me a line, at Hull.” 

Francis straightened in his seat. “Air Command is considering the commissioning of a new voyage of discovery, south this time, to Antarctica. Now it is a contest between George Back and myself and it could go either way, but should Command entrust their ambitions to me…” 

Francis held his breath. The ticking of their watch chains echoed together in the silent bridge.

“Will you be my second, Frank? It is likely a two-ship endeavour, and I know of none other whose temperament can curb these rages of mine but yours. Between us, we make one remarkable aeronaut.”

Francis made no immediate response, on account of how wildly his head was reeling. He had thought that Command would force another attempt at the Passage, or the North Pole, but this was to be a new continent, all for their discovery, and he and James at the helm. It exceeded everything he had ever dreamed of. 

Francis noted how tightly James held himself, fingers woven viselike as he sat motionless in his chair. He reached out and clasped James’s knee, a smile at the ready. “I will go at your bidding,” he said. 

The warmth of James’s grin could light a hundred corridors at night. “There is another,” he said. “A request much more significant than heading to unknown territory with me. Frank, will stand at the altar with me?”

“What?”

“You know, old boy! Will you be the Best Man at my wedding?” 

Francis did not think his breath could leave him more swiftly than when he fell from a cow’s arse. “Oh.”

“Oh? Oh, what?”

He shook his head and straightened in his seat. “It is only that… I thought you would prefer Bird.”

James chuckled, bemused. “Bird? Old Bird, you mean? Edward Bird. Why on earth would I do that?”

As to why, Francis had simply made his assumptions. Bird had his own London house, for one. Bird did not need to share rooms, and he made certain to visit the West End thrice a year despite being on half pay. He could hold a conversation in a dinner party without the aid of at least three full glasses of port. Because Bird was not Irish, and it was unlikely that he would appear in James’s wedding with a hole in his tailcoat. 

“Frank… _Francis_ ,” James implored, and it took some time for Francis to meet his gaze. “Who was it who left charming notes for me in the supply depots at Little Table and Walden Isle?” Oh. “And who has listened to me moan about promotion and insult the state of George Back’s beard? Who was waiting for me at Stromness in ‘33, just so he could tackle me to the ground and tell me to never sail without him ever again?” 

Francis was blushing now; he knew it from the warmth in his cheeks. “Francis Crozier,” James drew out his name, like a priest at a christening. “You are my oldest and dearest friend. I would want no one else beside me on the most important day of my life.”

Oh.

Suddenly, James pulled away. “Unless I have read this wrong, of course. Frank, have you in fact performed a blood compact with Old Bird?” 

“What...”

“Has he been, all this while, and unbeknownst to me, the dearest object of your friendly affections?”

“James, don’t be obtuse.”

“Has Bird exchanged sickeningly sweet letters with you for the past two years?”

“Edward’s a terrible correspondent, as you well know, and also he’s not my—”

Were he not trying desperately to appease him, Francis would not have caught the impish look on James’s eyes, but as he did, he merely huffed a laugh and conceded defeat. “Bird’s a decent sort but he’s not my best friend. You are.”

James beamed. “That settles it then.”

It was the first bell of the dogwatch and the sun was almost set, so Francis did not expect the bright haze of light from their windguard as they cleared a cloud. 

“Are we still lighting the long-range illuminator?” he asked, to which James said, “We are, but it shouldn’t be this bright.”

Francis inspected the light more closely, that very second noticing how it changed colour from a bright yellow to a dazzling green. “Frank…” muttered James weakly. Francis turned to him, and the look of shock and horror he found in James’s face chilled Francis down to his very bones.

There was no time for discussion. Francis raced out of the bridge and straight to the rear observation deck, James’s voice bellowing for the skymaster behind him. He strapped on a harness, the movement coming quick and practiced in his fingers. With his bifocals strapped over his eyes, Francis reached for the nearest ratline and crawled sidewards to the main engine just as the airship lurched downward. His grip loosened and he landed hard against the outside of the engine cabin, missing the entrance by a few feet and almost getting his right arm cut off by the propellers. 

“Sir!” an engineer yelled over the wind as Francis entered the cabin. “How much gas is in her?” Francis said. “Three-fourths of a tank, sir. The propellers shouldn’t be flip-flapping this early; it doesn’t make sense!”

“Nothing makes sense within an aurora,” Francis said. Of Francis’s voyages, he had only been within an aurora once, in 1825 when the _Fury_ was caught in its grasp and all its systems simultaneously shut down. James was with him in that voyage, and Francis was sure that the terrible memory was running through his mind as well.

“Keep an eye on the propeller,” he instructed. “Use as much gas as you can to ensure it stays at speed. Otherwise, we’ll swerve!”

The engineer’s reply was drowned out by Erasmus entering the cabin. “What is it, Ezra?”

“The captain needs you at dorsal.”

“Understood. Stay here and help us maintain thrust. We’ve got to outrun these lights!”

Erasmus had stepped over to take the controls when Francis grabbed his arm. “The middies, how well are they with sniffing?”

“Well enough, sir.”

“Have them join the topmen and cover every inch. We can’t have a leak now.”

Francis could barely hear Ezra’s “Aye, sir,” as he leaped back to the flank and climbed his way to the top of the sac. The wind had gone up to a force seven, and Francis immediately regretted not wearing his slops. He found James in the middle of delivering a slew of instructions to the captain of the foretop: “Have everything ready to hoist the foretop fin and main fin up the tail at the same moment. Frank?”

“Here.”

“The propellers?”

“The engineers are looking for any sign of tarrying. It’s starting, James.” 

And here, the _Cove_ conveniently lurched downward by half a fathom. A pair of midshipmen were thrown against the sac, their harnesses tangling with their legs. An AB at starboard lost his balance and slipped overboard, only to dangle limp from his harness, unconscious. Francis saw Mr. Smith hauling the man up top.

“We can’t ride this out,” James said. “We need to get out of it as soon as possible. Ready for full speed ahead.” 

Francis nodded. “Aye, Captain! Men! Brace yourselves for full speed!”

He listened as the command was carried out across the foretop to the nose, down to the flanks and into the engines and corridor. The purser below would be going through the fixtures, making sure that all loose objects were well-tethered.

“James, do you want to be in the air for this? It’s been a while.” 

The lights from their firefoxes dimmed in the corridor below, and even the engines seemed to grow quiet. The sky was alight with shades of pink and blue and green, but none were brighter than James, who shone with a ferocity and a feral taste for danger. James grinned and bent to grip the nearest ratline just as the airship swerved to port and righted itself instantaneously. Francis ran back several feet behind, the better to relay James’s commands.

An airship at full speed was a tremendous thing. On a normal day, engineers were careful to keep thrust at half-power, so as not to overtax the engines and cause unnecessary fires. An airship class like the _Cove_ going at its full 42 knots, with its systems exposed to the mysteries of the aurora and half of its crew at the mercy of the elements: it was an orison for disaster.

James gave the signal and the engines thrummed with life. The airship began to gain speed, slowly at first, 25 knots, 28, 32. Francis bent his knees so he was almost flat to the sac, going as low as he could to reduce air resistance. Clouds rifled past the helm as they gained speed, large pockets of gas and water rippling with the enchanting colours of the aurora. And then, something dark. Francis’s initial thought was that it was a clear patch of sky, but then it loomed darker, larger, unmistakably solid.

“Land!” a spotter yelled. Francis heard James curse across the foretop. They had been flying too near the shore, and somehow, in the confusion of the fog, had gone overland, right to a mountain of ice.

The starboard propellers reversed thrust, veering the ship to the right and missing the sharp ridges of the mountain by a mere fathom. Francis was thankful that he had left Erasmus in the engine cabin; the man was an excellent pilot. Officers and crew alike scrambled to get their bearings as the ship tilted on its horizontal axis. James was about to give the order to increase speed once more when another mountain was spotted, this time to starboard, and too near to begin standard evasive maneuvers. 

“James!” Francis screamed, his voice gone hoarse. “I see it!” he heard over the roar of the wind. James was running desperately up to him, leaping across ratlines so they could hear each other better. “Release the ballast!” James said as he reached Francis.

“What?”

“Release the ballast at the hull. We’re going to put the nose up.”

Francis realized what James was intending and began relaying the commands below, swinging down to the starboard’s main engine cabin to be sure. 

“What’s happening, Francis?” Erasmus asked. 

“We’re buying time. Brace for vertical procedures.”

“Good God!”

A great lurch sent them all scrambling for the nearest hold. Francis felt the ballast in the hull released, putting the airship’s entire weight aft. He hoped that no one was in the pantry right now; there was no honour in dying by forks.

_H.M.A. Cove_ pitched upward, nose first to the skies, its keel edging the side of the mountain by mere feet. Francis reckoned that if he were to hang by his arms from the rear observation deck, he could sprint along the side of the mountain. The entire airship shuddered as the engines worked double, triple its capacity. The sac groaned from the tension, rippling and reverberating as it fought against wind and hale and whatever torture the aurora was putting her through. 

“Hang in there, old girl,” Francis whispered under his breath. The most trifling of misfortunes could lead them to disaster. A tear in the envelope, hydrogen released, a spark in the engine, fire, propellers going haywire. “Nice and easy, darling,” Francis prayed. “Please, please…”

Suddenly, the dark of the mountain gave way to white, and they were among clouds again. It took a moment before Francis realized that they had cleared the summit, gaining enough height to see the entire mountain, its western face curving into itself and looking like a talon.

The airship levelled as the ballast aft was released, and small cries of celebration rang through the crew. Francis, unaware of how tightly he’d held his body, let out a shuddered sigh of relief. Erasmus was sitting across from him, his hand still on the propeller’s controls. They shared a frayed but welcome smile.

“No rest yet, Ezra,” Francis said, just as he heard James’s booming voice. “Spotters! All spotters to your positions! Ready for moderate speed!”

With a grunt, Francis rose and clapped the engineer in the shoulder. He shook Ezra’s hand, then hoisted himself once more to dorsal, the muscles in his shoulders and arms begging for rest. He found James at the tail near the stabilisers, sat on a pile of netting and giving last instructions to the skymaster. 

James looked up as Francis approached, and in their quick glance was a wordless exchange of gratitude and relief, and underlying it, the shared elation from a victory. The Arctic had tried to take them yet again, and again they eluded it. With James by Francis’s side, no hurdle seemed insurmountable. 

“Water, sirs?” Smith handed them each a canister and went off as quietly as he came. 

“Sharp mind, that one,” James said. “When I looked behind me and found your spot empty, I thought your harness had snapped. Smith apprised me of your situation before I could be overcome with panic.”

“I went where I was desired,” Francis said. “To the engine cabins to relay your command.”

“Yes, I realize that now, but in the uproar it escaped me.” James pressed his lips into a tight line as the furrow in his brow reappeared. “You’ve always been where I expected you to be, and until then… I suppose I hadn’t understood how deeply your absence upsets me.”

Francis flopped heavily onto the seat beside James and fumbled for something behind them, tossing aside rigging and tools until he exclaimed a short huff of triumph. He pulled the battered lanyard of James’s harness, made sure James was watching, then attached it to his own. 

It was true sun-down now, and the light from the setting sun shone at their backs and turned the _Cove’s_ envelope into a deep orange. Francis pulled James to him by the shoulders. His entire body ached from the movement, but he did not mind. 

🐝🚩🐝🚩🐝🚩

They arrived in Okkak Islands within a day, the _Cove’s_ envelope bruised but surprisingly stable. James himself zipped below to confer with the missionaries, and returned in an hour bearing what everyone had expected: There was no sight of the _William Torr,_ nor her sailors. Gales met them afterwards, but these were easterly winds and only helped them on their journey south.

Spotters called for Ireland within a week, and then Liverpool, and finally, Hull. James addressed the crew at the forecastle and thanked them for their service, then left it for the purser to announce when the men could expect the airship to be paid off.

James and Francis looked out of the windguard into the growing crowd below. “They’ll offer you a knighthood for this, I am sure,” Francis said.

James huffed. “You may be right, and I am inclined to turn it down.” He met Francis’s gaze. “It doesn’t feel right in my conscience. For all our mishaps, we haven’t saved a soul.”

“James—”

“Rescue expeditions are miserable ventures. There’s no glory to it. You set out with the hopes of families and friends carried on your shoulders, and if you return empty-handed, it’s as if you yourself have hammered the final nail into the coffins of their loved ones. I’ll never go again, not if I can help it.”

It was usually James who strived to instill in Francis some cheer; this left Francis befuddled on how to reciprocate. He nudged his elbow with James’s, who looked at him bemusedly. 

“No, you’re more fit for something extravagant, like the discovery of a new continent,” Francis said. “When shall it be, do you think?”

“Antarctica? In two years or so. Can you hold on for that long?”

“I’ll occupy myself elsewhere, take up tutoring, maybe.”

James made a very undignified snort. “You? A tutor?!”

“I’ll have you know I received distinctions at Henry-Hill.”

“Yes, Frank, when you were eleven! God knows your spelling has regressed since then.”

Francis tried to shove at James’s shoulder, only for James to swat his hand and hold it instead. Their fingers entwined, and Francis relished the contact. He had this, still, for a good number of years yet. He reckoned he knew why James had insisted on spending so many hours topside. He was much the same at the end of their last voyage together: Francis had hung from the ratlines until the sun had well set, wondering if he would ever see an iceberg again, until James himself had come up to call him to dinner.

James let go of Francis’s hand as something caught his eye. He quickly reached for his spyglass and scanned the faces in the crowd.

“Someone you know?” Francis asked.

James turned to him with a wide grin, his gaze warm and thrilled. “I’d like you to meet someone, Frank. Properly this time.”

🐝🚩🐝🚩🐝🚩

**Author's Note:**

>   * Everything about the actual rescue expedition can be read in “The Voyage of H.M.S. Cove, Captain James Clark Ross, 1835-36” (Jones, A.G.E., 1949). The route and the crew are fairly faithful to the historical one, with a few adjustments for artistic license.
>   * Could I have written this story without the steampunk/airship element? Absolutely. But I wanted to try my hand at writing an AU that wasn't just modern. Consider this a test case for ~~Antarctica shenanigans~~. 
>   * Also, I wanted to try my hand at writing ~~action scenes~~.
>   * The Cove is amber because it was made in Hull and the colors of Hull's football club are amber and black.
>   * The story about James clandestinely meeting Ann Coulman behind some bushes is legit. Those two were sappy af. Whether it was actually a booty call is something we will never know.
>   * The working title of this fic was “westward into davis strait.”
>   * There are many elements in this fic that were inspired by stuff from other fandoms. The most notable of them would be Temeraire (Naomi Novik) and Leviathan (Scott Westerfeld). 
>   * I really love the line “In this place, technology still bends the knee to luck, James” as well as Jaz Haz’s delivery of it. An underrated line imo
>   * This whole fic was written just so I could foreshadow James’s 1848 failed rescue attempt. Because I like to suffer that way. Anyway, the voyage in the Cove was nine months of their lives and historians tend to gloss over it, but don’t you find James’s history of rescue expeditions, from “searching for ships with Francis” to “searching for ships with Francis in them”, so fcking tragic? I need to lie down.
>   * Edward Bird, Francis, and James all served under Parry’s 1821 attempt at the Northwest Passage. The first of many rescue expeditions for Franklin was commanded by James and Bird. In his later years, James appointed Bird as one of the executors of his will. I like to think that it would’ve been Francis (had Francis returned).
>   * Third Lieutenant Erasmus Ommaney was eventually promoted to commander and sailed the H.M.S. Assistance in 1850 to look for the Franklin expedition. Ommaney found the graves on Beechey Island.
>   * I genuinely don’t know if zeppelins can pull off the maneuvers I described, but these fckers were the terrors of the Blitz so maybe??? Anyway, I want to thank wikipedia for its diagrams on zeppelin structure. Thank you, wiki.
>   * “I went as I was desired,” is something that Baby Crozy said when he was 14yo and asked how he incited the ire of French gendarmerie when all he had to do was leave a bunch of papers on shore. The whole anecdote is adorable.
>   * Baby Crozy really did receive distinctions when he was a student at Henry-Hill. He was particularly good at parsing, spelling, arithmetic, writing, recitation, and exemplary conduct. His spelling seems to have deteriorated into adulthood for Sophia to call him “an indifferent speller”.
>   * Oh! And lastly, the scene breaks are an amalgamation of James’s and Francis’s coat-of-arms. Did you notice??? Pls notice.
> 



End file.
